Slimline cat

Is it just me, or do vets not know their arses from their elbows these days? There I was, right, sat on the vet’s examination table – not a happy pussy, I tell you – and he’s banging on about how I’ve got furballs and wotnot. Furballs? Does NOBODY understand me? I’m bulemic, for the love of God. I eat, I puke, I stay slim. How else do you think I’ve got myself into this fine, slimline state? Furballs, indeed.

And what do my stupid owners do? They’re calling me “poor tiddles” and other such nonsense, and asking the vet if there’s anything he can give me. What next? Suppositories? What a joke. So apparently I’m on a prescription that they’re going to hide in my food that will break down the furballs and make them easier to expel. A prescription that I will eat, and oh yes I will eat it – looking happy as Larry – I might purr a bit – rub my face up against their legs to make them think they’ve done right by me, and then I’ll go and puke it up in the back garden.

You see, I’m a slimline cat. I’m not like those fat cats that loll around the back garden barely able to shift their huge girths so that they can catch a bird or a mouse or something. Nup, those fat cats get fed shitloads of sachet food whereas I’m a biscuits kinda guy. Or at least, I was a guy until they chopped my nads off. Now I’m a biscuits kinda eunech-cat. But I’m slimline and I’m staying that way. The girls like me that way, too. Not that I can do anything about it, but hey.

That’s why, whenever I eat something, I make sure that most of it comes right back up. And I’ve been doing it for months – nobody suspected a thing until my stupid owner’s five-year-old stupid child overheard me the other day. There I was, having a good old retch behind the bins, and she runs back in, yelling “Mr Tiddles is being sick! Mr Tiddles is being sick!”

So, naturally, I pegged it. Well what else does a cat do when its owners are coming for it? You run, don’t you. After all, being a slimline cat isn’t all vomiting and bulemia – there’s a lot of exercise involved too. So there I was, hiding out in the neighbours’ garage for a couple of days, and I thought to myself – hey, I can’t go vomming because they might hear me. So I had to hold back on the old bulemia – found myself putting on a few pounds, so I thought – what the heck, let’s have a puke. That’s when they caught me.

Oh, and they were all nice about it, too, stroking my head (God I hate that, you’d think that a wagging tail might be an indicator) and telling me that they’ve missed me. But what happened then? Straight to the man in white for a thermometer up the arse and the rather wild diagnosis that I have furballs.

Furballs, my arse.

Gorilla

As one of the world’s pre-eminent gorillas, I know a thing or two about tag. I remember running around the cage as a youngster, like a mad chimp playing tag with the other chimps, completely unaware of the centuries of tradition that have preceded our innocent game.

You see, this rich heritage of tag runs through the generations. My grandfather played it – his father played it – his father played it and no doubt his father played it too. You get the picture – we’re tag freaks, us gorillas. We love it. We can’t get enough of the game. I just can’t believe that you humans have only just found out that we play it. Christ, I mean, every year in London Zoo, we hold the World Gorilla Tag championships, and you didn’t even notice?

As chimps, we’re taught all about the great Tag champions of the past – from Hairy Bert in the 1700s through to modern day greats such as Banana Barry or Chuckles. The game runs through our veins, man. It’s in our blood.

You loll around in a world of your own, you lot. Here we are, maintaining our long tradition of tag, improving our techniques, honing our skills, and you just sit there thinking – ah, they’re hairy and they eat bananas. Yeah, I’m a hairy gorilla, and I eat bananas (I love ‘em, please send some more), but there’s more to us than that. We play tag loads, but we play other games too – I believe you’ve copied them, too. When we’re really bored, we play a game called “I Spy” – although there’s not much to spy once you’ve been round the cage twenty times already. I Spy something beginning with B – is it banana, or banana? No, you hairless bunch of freaks, it’s “brat” for that horrible little shit of a kid who keeps throwing sweets at us.

As grown-ups, we move away from Tag (don’t have the energy) and play more intellectual games such as Scrabble or Cluedo. My favourite, though, is charades. I love the face on those dumb humans when we’re playing charades. Hahahaha. It’s ace. There I am trying to express “Sleepless in Seattle” through the medium of mime, and you’re all standing there thinking “Aw, they’re gorillas and they’re having fun”.

Some of the more modern gorillas like to play poker, but heck, have you ever played poker with a gorilla? I’ll stick to bridge, thanks, much more civil.

Bear

Hey, I’m a bear, right. I’m covered in hair, I’m a little aggressive, and I like eating honey. Especially from Land Rovers when the windows are down – or not, depending on my mood. I’m also a bit up and down – one minute I’m crazily happy, the next I’m retreating back to my cave feeling like the world’s going to cave in on me at any minute. But I tell you what really gets my goat – really winds me up, man. It’s people who think that because I’m bipolar, I’m actually a polar bear.

I’m not! I love the wild, man. I love the forests and the Rockie Mountains – I love jars of honey, catching fish and sleeping for long, long periods… and I love beating up humans. Them icebergs ain’t for me and you’d never catch me anywhere north of the Arctic circle – them polar bears are crazy, man, I tell you. Mad. And all they ever eat is fish – I mean, I love a bit of sushi – I love it as much as the next bear, but every meal? Not for me – I’m a fan of the Jamie Oliver diet – a bit of vegetation, a bit of meat, a bit of fish – wazz it all up and you’ve got one wicked meal. Wash it all down with some bonzo river water – there’s nothing better. Fish three meals a day, though – what’s all that about?

So it makes me really mad to hear people saying – “hey, he’s a bipolar bear, he’s from the Arctic” or “hey, he’s a bipolar bear, maybe he’s got his winter coat on?” What a load of cock! The other day, someone said, “hey, if he’s a bipolar bear, does that mean he likes both male and female polar bears?”

Heck man, no it does not! Let’s get one thing straight here – I may have moodswings that go up and down more often than a whore’s knickers on a particularly busy night, but I’m a ladies’ bear, pure and simple. In fact, I’d rather be called a polar bear than a bi-bear – there’s such a thing as pride, you know! What with all of these “teddy bears” that you humans are so fond of, us bears have got a reputation to repair. Only the other day, I broke into a family vehicle and found this book called “Rupert the Bear” – who the bloody hell ever thought of calling a bear Rupert? That’s a totally gay bear.

No, bears are called “Brutus” or “Kong”, not “Rupert” or “Tarquin” or whatever monstrosities you humans are calling us now. And hey, I can talk on behalf of the polar bears now, we don’t want to be part of your “save the planet” bullcrap. Yeah, we’ve all seen those pictures of polar bears on little icebergs about to drown because you lot are ruining the planet with your SUVs and your 4×4s. Leave us out of it, man!

So remember, if you come across me in the forest one day, I’m neither bi nor polar – I’m bipolar, so you’d better pray I’m in one of my good moods!

Vorderwoman

Steven Gerrard makes me sick. How is it that a young man, paid by the truckload, thinks he can let down his country and then HAVE SEX? I for one think Steven Gerrard is an absolute disgrace, and he should be showing the country exactly how sorry he is by cutting himself with knives until it really hurts. Self harm is the only way for England’s footballers to repent for their appalling performances. Wayne Rooney should be banging his head against a brick wall, and Ashley Cole should be mutilating his foot until he can no longer walk on it.

As a role model for the country’s youth, Steven Gerrard should be living a near monastic life. How dare he go out and have sex with women? After his performances in South Africa, the very least Steven Gerrard could have done is give up his first-class ticket on the plane and hitch-hiked it back all the way through Africa, up through Spain, and then worked his way back on foot, taking jobs as he went picking fruit and vegetables or helping out communities build sheds and stuff.

To make it harder for Gerrard to get back, he should have one leg tied to John Terry’s right leg. And John Terry should be given anaesthetic so that Gerrard finds it even harder to lug the weight of a sex maniac up the continent of Africa. He should also be made to wear a t-shirt that says “cannibals come and eat me” so that the natives think he’s food. That would teach him.

On his return to England, after swimming the Channel, he should have carried a cross on his back all the way to Liverpool, where crowds would have greeted him with ritual abuse and rotten vegetables. Instead, what is he doing? He goes off in his five-star aeroplane, stays in a ten-star hotel with a SWIMMING POOL and JACUZZI, and starts having sex with women – a pleasure that should be well and truly off the menu for our under-performing footballers.

In fact, and I’m calling on all of womanhood here, we should be the ones who are proactively denying Steven Gerrard any female flesh. It’s well known that he’ll try to impregnate anything with two legs and long hair, so ladies – let’s get together and deny this libidinous lackey his lady loving until he starts winning trophies for England. And if he does come calling – and in fact, if any member of the England squad come calling – then give them a sharp knife, tell them to self-harm, and shut the door in their faces.

Disclaimer: Of course, this is not really Carol Vorderman writing for the Daily Shame. We’d never let the mathematics harpie anywhere near our editorial offices.

I propose that each and every foreign spouse, in fact, each and every foreigner that comes to the UK – and I include those that call themselves “European”, despite only having a tenuous hold on that particular title – should embody the spirit of Princess Diana. What greater way of understanding what it means to be British, and what it means to live in this great country of ours?

Wouldn’t it be a better Britain if the foreigners we let through our already porous gates were in tune with the wishes and the ethos of Diana? If every Polish plumber and Latvian kerb-crawler understood what Diana meant to each and every one of us, there would be no crime and the skies would never rain.

Every foreigner who lands on British soil should be held at immigration and assessed as to what extent they embody Diana’s spirit. This should be in the form of random questionning by customs officials, who naturally embody Diana’s spirit anyway, and then through a written essay of at least 1,000 words explaining exactly how they intend to carry the torch of Diana’s love throughout their stay in the UK. Those who fail to adequately explain Diana’s spirit will be forced to return to their own country – regardless of whether they’d be tortured or not.

There must also be regular checks on whether immigrants in this country are respecting the wishes of the late Princess of Wales. In this instance, the medium Derek Acorah can hold regular seances so that we can get in touch with the spirit of Princess Diana, and she can inform us of which immigrants are failing to embody her spirit. Immigrants should also be made to write poems to Diana’s memory on a regular basis, so that they remain in tune with her spirit. Those who fail to submit at least 20 lines of poetry a year will be subject to even more rigorous checks.

This is what she would have wanted, and it will make the UK a safer, nicer place, in which the life of Princess Diana is cherished and respected by everyone. Diana did not want hoodlums cluttering up our streets, and she definitely did not want benefits spongers turning the white cliffs of Dover a lurid shade of yellow with their rancid piss.

Disclaimer: This is not really Carol Vorderman writing for the Daily Shame. We’d never let that rabid woman write for us in reality. Thanks, but no thanks, Carol.

Voice of Vorderman

I don’t know about you, but this whole Jon Venables “still being alive” thing really makes me sick. We should have hanged him years ago alongside Gary Glitter and all those paediatricians from Portsmouth, and even that’s too good for them. The idea that we – the taxpayers – are funding his lavish lifestyle in prison, makes me boil with rage.

I want to know everything about Jon Venables so that we’re all safe from this monster. I want a camera fitted to his head so that we can see every little detail of his life – in fact, I hear that they can read thoughts now, so I think scientists should be scanning his mind for any signs of monstrosity. The minute they find the slightest bad thought, he should be confined to solitary, and the key should be thrown away.

Jon Venables’ life should be documented to the last detail, so that every single one of us can sleep safely in our beds – I’d be happy to pay someone 20 grand a year to sit and record everything, from what he eats for breakfast to the size of his stools to the TV programmes he watches, to the number of times he scratches his evil head. We have a right to know everything – and it should be made public either on a website or in The Sun – on a daily basis. Call it Big Brother if you want, but it’s our responsibility as crazed, reactionary loons to keep this monster away from us for as long as possible.

And it’s not just Venables, it’s every paedophile, every murderer and every Guardian reader that should be tracked, documented and never, ever rehabilitated into society. We have a right to know just what they’re doing – at all times of day. If there were a “national vile monster warning system”, which is what I’ve proposed to the government only this week, then our children would always be safe. The government could raise the alert to red every time a paedophile or a murderer were to come within, say, a mile of a decent human being. If Jon Venables goes to the toilet – we have a right to know, because he could be plotting his escape down the pipes.

Of course, Ed Balls and Gordon Slackjaw Brown don’t want this – they think he should be let free into society for some bizarre reason, along with all the other paedophiles, murderers, rapists and liberals. In their minds, they seem to be creating some kind of monster utopia, where decent taxpayers like you and me are preyed upon and robbed senseless. They talk about this thing called rehabilitation, but what is that, if it’s not pouring our tax pounds down the toilet – Jon Venables’ toilet!

Disclaimer: Of course, we do not endorse the views of Vorderman, nor did she actually write for us. We’d never allow her to do such a thing.

The Voice of Vorderman: Residents of Camberley are right – there should be no Mosque in their town! This is yet another example of Broken Britain – where asylum seekers and Muslims can just waltz in, knock down our beautiful Victorian buildings and build their own spaceship buildings which have absolutely no style whatsoever.

I was sickened when I learned that they wanted to knock down a beautiful Victorian school and replace it with a hideous “Mosque”. And what is a Mosque anyway? Is it a place of worship or is it a Trojan horse for warfare, hatred and even more asylum seekers in our back gardens, eating our sandwiches, stealing our benefits and laughing at us in an evil manner going “haw haw haw” as if they’ve got the system cracked and there’s nothing we can do about it.

Back in my day, a Victorian building like that was something to be treasured. In places like Camberley, you could wander down the road with the vicar, have a cup of tea with some youths and never even have to think to yourself “hey, did I leave the door unlocked? Of course I did, it’s fucking safe round here and there’s no foreigners to nick my wallet or rob me to death.”

There was once a day of green pastures and church bells, and the sound of willow hitting leather. Now it’s a day of green mosques, hollering for prayers and the sound of a rusty nail being banged into the coffin of Great Britain.

Now it’s full of foreigners and such like and I tell you what, I don’t like it one bit. I reckon this Mosque is just phase one in their plan to take over Camberley and Muslimise it completely, from top to bottom. Is that a word? Well it should be, because that’s what’s happening to our once great country.

Phase two is going to be the stockading of arms. They’re coming to get us, people, you should know it now. Just like Iran, this Mosque is going to go nuclear, and hey – they don’t care who they’re taking down with them. They’ll be doing their Friday prayers one minute and blitzing us to bits the next – just you watch them.

I bet they’re in with that Mamoud Ah’m a dinner-jad or whatever his name is. That fella from Iran who’s going to bomb everyone. Well, that’ll be where they’re getting their nuclear weapons from. Phase 3 is to replace all of Britain’s churches and Victorian schools with mosques, and phase 4 is no doubt to have us all enslaved.

That’s the future, folks. We might as well just move to America, except that it’s full of Mexicans sponging off them.

The “Voice of Vorderman” in no way represents the views of the editorial team here at The Daily Shame, by the way, we’re just giving her a chance to have her say after that sterling performance on Question Time.